


Death is Gay

by orphan_account



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, dont read this, holy fuck man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: kinky shit feat. Angel(s) of Death





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> kinkshame me, please.

Reaper shivered slightly at the cold, delicate tracing of deadly-sharp claws over his exposed back. He exhaled heavily, thin black smoke mixed with the breath. The claws flattened against his sallow skin, smoothing up to rest gently on his shoulder. The question the creature behind him wanted to ask went unspoken, but the ghost was attentive enough to know.

“I'm fine. You don't need to worry so much about me.” He doesn't bother to even look back, the large hand giving a gentle squeeze to his shoulder as he looks the gauntlet over. It’s on his forearm--he always found them easier to clean that way. In fact, both are on, and he gives them a last once-over. “Something's wrong,” he mumbles, straightening a little and narrowing his eyes. He flicks his tongue out, the chubby round forks grabbing a whiff of the air. Something is  _ definitely  _ wrong, but no one is saying anything. He turns and squints up at the archangel of wisdom, frowning sternly as he stands, hardly coming up to the other’s chest. Suddenly the air changes and Malthael pushes him back into sitting, making him gasp slightly in surprise. The archangel is still silent, and settles low on where Reaper assumes is his knees. There’s a subtle tilt of Malthael’s hooded head, and he leans in, staring Reaper down. It’s unsettling as hell, that empty cowl gaping black at him. He can't help but let his eyes slide away, head tilting off to the side to avoid that invisible gaze. A gentle, gloved hand comes up, knuckles smoothing at the metal frame connected to his jaw. He closes his eyes, allowing the soft touch to continue. It’s so light he hardly realizes when it’s gone, the hand slipping down to curl around his neck. It pushes him back flush with the chair, then tightens, pushing further than he could move and cutting off his airway. At first he doesn't react--Death has no use for air, and he wants so desperately to be death itself. Malthael says nothing as he squeezes a little extra, making the pressure in Reaper’s head feel like a balloon on the edge of bursting. Both hands jump to wrap around the slender wrist of the archangel, and he finally opens his eyes, vision going fuzzy around the edges as he snarls mutely, baring a jagged line of teeth to the creature in front of and slightly above him. It doesn't matter if he dies here and now; they’ve learned that what Malthael harvests from his prey simply doesn't exist in Reaper. That leaves him to resurrect as many times as the archangel likes to see, which tonight looks to be many times. It's exhausting, but it drags him down to a monstrous shape that the far older creature seems to adore.

Surprisingly, the hand drops its grip and air floods into his chest. He gasps and coughs, spasming like a fish suddenly pulled out of water. He catches his breath slowly, panting as his head lolls over, eyes fixing up on the invisible face. Malthael is standing again, hunched over him with his skeletal wings half-splayed into the air. His clawed hand comes up, tipping Reaper’s chin up delicately.

“You are most beautiful on the brink of death,” the archangel murmurs, voice so low and close it makes the specter under him bite his lip, teeth peeking out against the dark skin. He’d never get enough of that damn voice, so much lower and more dangerous than even his own. He grins and squints, a cocky look written over his face.

“I bet. Why don't you tell me more?” A huff, barely audible as the hands go down to rest on his thighs. Malthael is practically close enough to lick, and Reaper is so,  _ so _ tempted to indulge himself. He doesn’t though, instead staring into that blackness under the hood, eyes locked onto it firmly. He isn't scared anymore, and knows he’ll be rewarded. The archangel stays there, watching him silently for a moment that feels like it drags on for hours.

Finally, Malthael pulls away, giving him a glance-over that makes him feel a bit put-off. He turns away, and Reaper stands, rubbing his painful neck lightly. “That's it? You didn't even kill me once.” He doesn't even have time to breathe before he’s on the ground, pierced through the chest while the other perches over him, petting his face too-softly. He laughs under the archangel, squirming at the feeling of being hooked to the ground. “I knew you’d make me eat my words.” He tugs at the sickle pushed through him, gripping the handle and trying to get it out. He’s not trying to escape it; rather, he wants to bleed faster. Malthael grips his wrist, pulling it away and pinning it. He pulls it out himself, sitting down properly atop his chew toy. He folds his wings neatly and looks at the shining black blood smeared over his weapon, then down to Reaper, who’s coughing and starting to properly die. The archangel feels another rush of delight and love at the sight, and sets the sickle aside, digging his fingers into the ragged hole. The ghost wheezes at the invasive touch, and his head drops to the side as his body struggles of its own volition to keep him alive. He relaxes but jolts hard when shock hits, shaking violently as he fades, body vanishing into thick smoke as Malthael floats sedately about a foot off the ground, waiting patiently for his return. 

Reaper drags himself back, face already falling apart, too many eyes staring at the archangel. Immediately, his face is subject to probing by fingers and claws alike. He’s then turned, pulled up into a pair of lithe arms. He feels wet, open-mouthed kisses smear over his back, pulling a raw groan from his throat.

“Malthael… you know how to treat a guy. You know that, right?” A guttural growl goes against his skin, cold lips brushing over his shoulders. There’s a slight breeze as the archangel drops his wings open, mantling the wraith in his arms. Inhuman teeth dig into him, peeling his greying flesh open like an overripe fruit. He gasps and chokes on a noise as he’s gutted like a fish on those pretty metal claws, the hand diving in to curl like frost around his very heart. It’s so cold and grips the muscle so tight, he cries out at the painful jolt it brings. Cardiac arrest follows shortly and he slumps limply, little more than a half-gutted corpse being cuddled by the greedy archangel. He’s dumped after a moment, allowed to regenerate again. This time, he’s far more ugly, skin  _ melting _ right off in big disgusting lumps. It shows the sickening black underneath, and after a moment he looks like little more than a pool of ferrofluid given humanoid shape. Malthael is finally satisfied with his shape and slams him down to the ground, leaving him dizzy at the impact.

“So perfect…” the elder whispers, touching the smooth black face. Four catlike eyes fix up on him, the textures of the red irises glittering in the light. Now he’s  _ always _ on the brink of death, straddling the line in the most elegant way. The archangel eagerly pushed his chew toy’s knees to his chest, folding him in two and keeping him pinned there easily. His claws play at the smooth, perfect ass presented to him, scars all but forgotten in this state.

“Ah-Mal-!” The ghost gasps as he’s speared open with a finger. A low growl and he’s flipped, on his knees with his face mashed into the shiny polished tile of this little “hiding spot”. A pair of wings keep him pinned, pressing on the back of his neck while those hands get to work. A second finger joins its twin, then an almost painful third.

“This is a good look for you,” snaps the archangel, vicious as he spreads the specter mercilessly. He grins to himself at the thought of trying to fuck Reaper without lube, knowing the pretty ghost wouldn't bother compensating and instead allow himself to be ruined. The armor’s removed, bandages shuffled aside; watery grey fog of his own peels off his ashen skin to twine itself with the greasy smog of Reaper. He pulls his fingers out and quickly works himself to the hilt, exhaling heavily at the sensation. His little pet says nothing, pushing a fist against his mouth and relaxing instinctively.

“So sweet and calm when you’re pinned and fucked,” the archangel coos, toying with the glistening inky curve of the ghost’s spine. It's like a sedative, the dead man accepting the degrading praise without argument. He curls his hands around those lovely wide hips, digging his fingers in as he squeezes them appreciatively. He hunches and rolls his hips, pulling out barely an inch before pushing back in. The friction is hot and almost too much for him--the ghost automatically loosens some of himself to act as a slick particulate lube. Malthael sighs, half in disappointment and half in relief. It's a thin substance, and there's not much of it, thankfully. He tries again, the slick sensation making him hum appreciatively as he pulls back to the tip, then buries himself again, Reaper throwing his head back against the wings in shock.

“Fuck, Malthael,” he practically sobs, sounding so damn perfect. The archangel doesn't have to see to know his four eyes are brimming with involuntary tears, his fist tightening to the point he wonders absently if he’s going to cut right through his glove and palm with his own claws. The harsh movement is repeated and he feels ready to choke on his own tongue, the cock filling out his belly draining away his thoughts and leaving nothing but a shameful hunger. “ _ Moooore, _ ” he hisses, teeth bared as he takes another rough thrust, body reacting with desperate need. It's been so long, too long, and no mortal can do what Malthael can. No mortal can make him feel so helpless, make him die again and again and want more. His face twists as his shoulder’s taken in a vice grip, used as leverage to shove him open again. He whimpers at the impossible fullness, bites his lip at the gaping sensation that tugs at his gut every time those hips pull away.

“What do you say?” The low, haunting voice says, right in his ear.

“Fuck, daddy, I want to be full of angel cum tonight!” He blurts it out without thinking, desperate to take his fill. The archangel purrs out a chuckle, shifting again to go so deep it makes the poor ghost ache.

“ _ Good. _ ” Damn his voice kink. He nearly spills over the tile with just that word, fat drops of precum pooling at his slit and wobbling with each violent movement. A few fall, the dripping muffled by the slap of skin on skin. Malthael stops halfway, sniffs. “Ah. What's that I smell?” Reaper whimpers and drops his head, tears finally spilling out at the abuse on every part of him, it felt like. It was such  _ lovely _ abuse though, bringing him to the very brink of orgasm. “Can't have that,” the archangel murmurs, keeping still despite the carnal need to leave his pet a demolished mess on the floor. It’s more satisfying to wait, forcing the wraith into patience as the boiling pleasure slowly fades, leaving the weak little thing gasping. The elder tuts and loosens his grip, massaging lazy circles into that oily black waist.

“Please,” comes the pitiful noise below him, a feeble buck shortly following. He suddenly surges forward, driving himself painfully deep and shifting to hold Reaper up doggy-style.

“Mm-mm, you'll have to wait longer, now.” They sit like this for minutes as meager pleas pour out of the specter, the lack of friction driving him to desperation. He sets his face lightly in the crook of one of the wraith’s shoulders, humming as he slowly rocks them back and forth, never moving enough to get any friction. It feels so good knowing he’s got the ghost wrapped around his little finger, and delights in the hiccuping gasp that he pulls with one lazy thrust, dragging his hips back so he’s barely still inside, then jamming them forward again with a meaty sound. He’s never had a little toy quite like Reaper; none so delightfully tight or so tastefully slutty for him.

“Daddy, please!” The meek, tiny mewl pulls him from his content reverie and he growls, throaty and rough. It elicits a cute shiver, and he purrs as he shifts again, starting to slowly resume fucking his toy. He rolls his hips in a half-assed way, too satisfied with the begging to put much effort forth. It gets higher and louder, pitching up when he starts to thrust with abandon. He thinks back to the half-garbled gasp that expressed an explicit need to be filled with “angel cum”, and groans as he buries himself to the hilt again. Reaper is losing his mind, hardly mumbling anything again as he’s given what he wants--to be fucked open by the archangel above him. Malthael gives a dry chuckle, more of a wheeze now that he’s feeling the friction too, and leans back down to that invisible ear.

“It’d never happen--he's far too prideful--but imagine being pleased by Imperius himself. He’s nearly twice my size.  _ Everywhere _ .” Reaper gives a lewd noise, eyes drooping shut even as tears stream down his cheeks. He can't imagine it, clenching on the archangel as he pictures the massive cock ripping him open, tearing him apart just by  _ existing _ . Malthael hums, drawing on some of his power to increase himself, feeding off it and stretching out, filling up that pretty tummy until it’s practically bulging. He’s hardly grown at all--a handful of what the nephalem call  _ feet _ , height wise. Everything scaled, naturally, but Reaper doesn't seem to care. He’s babbling again, uttering the archangel’s name like it’s a prayer. The elder can hardly move now, the body around him is so tight and constricting, but he does anyway. One hand grips a curved hip again, laying over the bruising marks from before. The other sets firmly on the ground, digging in as he starts thrusting.

“ _ Daddy! _ ” Reaper howls, arching and screaming himself hoarse as he’s pounded by that too-massive dick. It hurts so good and it’s about four thrusts later when he cums, painting the tile with off white as he clenches  _ everything _ . His body’s wound taut like a drawn bow and he wants so badly for this to never end. Malthael groans as he goes lax, releasing himself into the ghost and filling him to the point his abdomen is swollen with the thick, almost glowing liquid.

“Mm… was that enough for you, my pet?” A tiny whimper is his only answer, and he smells a need for more on him. “Not finished yet? My, my. Someone is going to hurt themselves.”


	2. holy hell you guys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more kinky shit. malthael comes back and sees reaper being a lonely gay.  
> some fluffy stuff after the fuckin' B]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i guess there's more of this trash, since the first bit was popular enough to warrant this. filthy goddamn sinners, the lot of you. [don't worry, i am too.]

He whimpers into the crook of his arm, teeth sinking into the metal and leaving silver marks where the paint’s scraped off. His eyes flutter and he gasps at an accidental touch that earned him a jolt of pleasure.

“Wish you were here,” he whines, gritting his teeth as he tries to focus on the heat between his legs and the cold of his claws. It works and he exhales heavily, all the air leaving him as he fucks his fist to the thought of Malthael. He doesn't care if anyone finds him in this state, enjoying the feeling too much to give a shit. He knows that the Council had a mission but damn if he doesn't miss the near-daily fuck after being pulled up into their hiding spot. It's been nearly a month and he’s almost worried--nobody has time to pull away from the fight to tell him shit, so he’s in the dark. Doesn't matter, if anybody managed to see him with an immortal without that time-bullshit, he’d be in trouble for a good long while. So, he’s fine with waiting. It’s just a long, agonizing wait. No different than the wait the archangel would force him into regularly, anyway. He hums in delight as he rolls his hips, biting his tongue a little and swallowing a groan. Just thinking about Wisdom dragging him away from the brink of orgasm only to fuck it out of him savagely a moment later is driving him up a wall. He drools against his gauntlet at the mental image of being worked back and forth between states, knees going jellylike. He doesn't notice or care about the shift of shadows behind him. He’s too busy dragging the fat toy he helped himself to out of his body before changing his grip, palm shoving the flat base up and pushing it achingly deep again. He whimpers softly, but freezes and looks over his shoulder at footsteps, nearly losing himself right then and there.

“How many times have you done this while I was away?” Bony, spidering hands curl loosely around the meat above his hip bones, thumbs massaging circles into the sallow skin there.

“I… I lost count,” he breathes out, shaking slightly at the demanding tone.

“Of course you did. I'm barely gone and you lose your mind over your craving for me.” It sounds just on this edge of  _ angry, _ and he whines pitifully when the toy’s dragged all the way out agonizingly slow, leaving him hungry for more. “You even worked yourself open for me in anticipation for when I returned.” The low voice grows closer and Reaper twists his face up, swallowing a moan as he bucks softly into the gentle touches. 

“Please,” he gasps, struggling for air through the suffocating lust.

“I don't know if you  _ deserve _ it, disgusting little brat. Have you stayed loyal to me?”

“Yes, papi. I've only used toys--ones that remind me of  _ you _ .” A low chuckle and he worries his lip, trying hard not to scream in delight as he’s filled slowly with the pacifying coolness of the archangel. It's so comforting and he automatically rolls his hips back, taking it all in one sweep.

“Eager, and obedient. Hm.” More sweet touches over his back and along the curve of his ass, his face moving to rest against the wall.

“Oh  _ god _ … it's been so long…” he sniffs back accidental tears at the burning, barely-noticeable stretching, body howling in protest and pleasure. Soft tutting and he purrs out a silky moan at the feeling of being cradled close to that lean chest, slender arms curling around him soothingly as those skeletal wings are shaken out, settling around them like curtains of mist.

“So warm and sweet for me,” Malthael mumbles into his ear, their hips meeting after a moment. It draws the most delightful sound out of Reaper, and the elder grumbles something in approval before pulling back, pale flesh dragging over his shaft and practically  _ sucking _ at it. That pretty ring of muscle clenches down on him, spasming and twitching involuntarily as its owner slowly slips down into a half-unconscious mindset. They continue at this delightfully slow pace, Wisdom enjoying the lazy fuck quite a bit. It was satisfying to see that plump butt just  _ waiting  _ for him, but his favorite thing was facing away from him. Time to remedy that.

“Turn around,” he says stiffly, pulling completely out and nudging a shoulder. Of course the wraith does so, a lost look all over his face as he drools more, saliva dribbling down his jaw and dropping off onto his collarbone. There’s a vague noise of approval from the elder, who pushes him to his knees and chuckles, pressing his hips against that heavy chest. “I want you to do that trick you pulled last time.” A nod, and clawed hands come up, the specter tipping himself up to cup the unearthly cock with his plush pecs. He hums happily, the same pleasure-drunk, blissed-out look written over his face as the archangel rolls his hips again and  _ again _ , tip brushing his lips.

“Papi, you look so good at this angle,” he groans out, eagerly opening his mouth. He flopped his tongue out to allow the flesh in; it tastes tangy and familiar, rubbing over his tastebuds lovingly as he squeezes his chest further, creating a tight valley.

“Nnh, good boy. Just started and already I'm close…”

“Please let me taste you,” the ghost pleads, quickly taking the tip in and sucking it hungrily. He drags his rough tongue over the slit over and over, kneading his pecs around his lover in encouragement. Malthael hisses in delight, grabbing him by the crown of his head and fucking the specter’s chest and mouth greedily. It takes three more thrusts before he spills wave after wave of his sweet seed into and around Reaper’s mouth, making an exquisite mess. Pretty cheeks are filled out and the wraith looks so damn happy, eyes squished up in delight as he swallows all of it in gulps. Wisdom hums and pulls his pet back up, pinning him to the wall and reaching to brush teasing claw-tips at his needy cock. He stays still obediently, only tipping his head back slightly to breathe heavily and lick his lips.

“I can't forget about you,” the archangel says gently, wrapping his armored hand around the swollen flesh and giving it a tug, squeezing gradually. It elicits a long, ragged noise out of the ghost, mouth hanging open as he leaves lovely off-white droplets over the silvery metal of the gauntlet. That gloved hand tickles along his side, feeling out the fluttery gasps of breath. “Forgetting something, my love?” He leans closer to that unmasked face, a low chuckle bubbling out when all those eyes bug out, red going glassy. “Can't have you getting too comfy,” he teases, twisting the blade and revelling in the sickening wetness of the specter’s rattling breathing. He doesn't flinch when his small lover coughs up blood, cock going soft in his claws.

How satisfying and beautiful could this damned half-mortal abomination  _ get?  _

He sighed and left the long blade in its place, hand coming up to cup one soft cheek, thumb-tip gently petting at the corners of those eyes. It's the ghost’s favorite spot to be touched and  _ so intimately _ like this--he’d never get enough, straddling life and death or not. The archangel holds him as he fades, pooling thick and weighty against the textured wall and smooth floor. The sword-like object he’d been impaled on clatters to the ground, eddies of his smog curling up through the air as a result. Both of Malthael’s hands toy at him, fingers running through the smoke like a mother’s fingers combing through her child’s unruly hair. He reforms after a moment and nestles himself up to the slender figure bent over him, grasping the decorative armor and breathing heavily at the rush of excitement; a Pavlovian response coded in by too many deaths and too much of a reward afterward. Wisdom seems endlessly amused by the stain of not-quite-white smeared into the crook of his elbow and along the decorated plating covering his gut.

“Never change, my darling,” he rumbles, claws tickling up to Reaper’s shoulders, the metal leaving tiny lines of black and rot in the sallow skin.

“I'll try not to,” comes the mumbled reply, hardly audible even at this distance. His hands play over the specter as if he’s strumming a harp--ironic, considering humanity’s past views of angels. The ghost sighs against his chest, looking down and off to the side as he dressed his little pet back up.

“Feel better?”

“I always do when you pay attention to me.”

“I'm flattered.” A dry chuckle that makes him sound like what would be nicknamed a “chain smoker”--he finds the terminology humorous; the people he sounds like are typically his most common prey.

“So now what? You're back for a while, right?”

“Until the council needs me again.”

“Don't they always need you?”

“I meant for combat. Auriel can keep Imperius and Tyrael on the same page in my absence, and Itherael is good enough at his job he can nearly fill in for me.”

“So why are you there so often, then, if you aren't needed all the time?”

“It's home. I like being there.” Another chuckle, and he lays his hands around the curvy waist Reaper sports.

“I see. Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Mm, I don't see why not. None of my students or assistants seem to mind you--they have a similar opinion to myself. They think it's  _ cute _ you look and act like me.” A full laugh, now, rich and filled with mirth, pours from the wraith.

“Man, you angels are crazy. Like a bunch of grandparents or something.”

“Well, you mortals had to get your mannerisms from somewhere, no?”

“Very true.” Reaper smiles up at him, face squishing up adorably. It's nice to be together again.


End file.
